<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Paris by Night... by alex_fix</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28050873">Paris by Night...</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_fix/pseuds/alex_fix'>alex_fix</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wynonna Earp (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beauty of a new place, F/F, Finding new friends, Fluff, Paris (City), Spilt water</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 14:55:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,084</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28050873</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_fix/pseuds/alex_fix</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Waverly gets Nicole wet in Paris...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Paris by Night...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Nicole had no intention of falling in love with Paris. If she was honest, she wasn’t feeling any particular love for the city. Her first time visiting she was on her own, seeking to enjoy the few days she allowed herself before heading home. It had been on her bucket list of places to visit for as long as she had kept a bucket list. Now here, it lacked something. Perhaps it was seeing all the lovers strolling down romantic boulevards together, or families gazing in awe at the Eiffel Tower.</p><p>Travel guide in hand, she roamed the streets for most of the morning, stopping briefly to grab a coffee in a small café in Montmartre. Selecting the Consulat as her stopping off point, the write up in her travel guide informed her it was one of the most photographed cafés in the whole of Paris. Pretty enough she considered, not somewhere she would rush to photograph herself, the outside looking tired if she was being honest, the lower half of the building painted red, the upper floors in cream, numerous tables and chairs, which clearly had seen better days, positioned outside allowing customers a chance to watch Parisian life go by.</p><p>Her small black coffee finished, a tall glass of water untouched, she was in the middle of reading the next section of her guide book when her table received a violent jolt, sending the full glass of water cascading over everything. “Merde! Are you okay?”</p><p>“Not really,” Nicole replied, surveying the huge wet patch on her jeans.</p><p>“I buy another, yes?” the young woman offered, her face apologetic, not entirely sure what to do in the situation.</p><p>“It’s fine, I’ll dry out. Don’t worry. It's only water.”</p><p>“Let me 'elp you,” the woman insisted, proceeding to grab a handful of paper serviettes from a metal dispenser on the table, rubbing Nicole’s jeans as best she could, leaving small white flecks as the serviettes disintegrated. “I make worse, je suis désolé.”</p><p>Nicole looked down, the stain still as big as ever, now with tiny bits of paper attached. Her gaze alternated between the woman standing before her holding a soggy lump of serviettes in her hands and her damp pants. She burst into laughter, the woman joining her. “This is not how I pictured myself in Paris,” Nicole said. “At least I’ll have a story to tell when I get back home.”</p><p>“Bien sûr. Of course. It would not be Paris for you not 'ave a story. Come, I will make you dry. Come.”</p><p>The woman picked up Nicole’s sodden guide book, shaking it to remove the pool of water which had collected on its surface, holding her hand out, Nicole taking it without even thinking. Whoever this person was she was very attractive, with a thick French accent making Nicole’s knees go weak.</p><p>They walked a short distance, the woman stopping outside a bistro, retrieving a key from her pocket, opening a door to the side of the main entrance. A flight of stairs led to a first floor, the woman leading the way, Nicole following. A beautiful, eclectic apartment stretching out before her, everything Nicole dreamt Paris would be like. “This is great,” Nicole said as her eyes took in the space.</p><p>“Mon oncle le possède. Parlez-vous français?" The look on Nicole's face told Waverly she didn't speak french. "Zis is ze flat of my uncle. I study 'ere."</p><p>“It’s amazing. You’re very lucky.”</p><p>“And, you are not,” the woman replied, looking at Nicole’s wet patch. “Please take off and I dry for you.”</p><p>Nicole suddenly felt self-conscious at the prospect of removing her jeans. It was one thing having a story to tell about being drenched, a completely different story explaining how she came to be partially clothed in a stranger’s flat. Still, when in Paris she thought, unzipping them, rolling her damp jeans down her legs, handing them to the woman. “This is definitely not how I pictured my stay in Paris.”</p><p>The woman took the trousers, heading to a small room off the lounge, the sound of a tumble dryer starting. She returned a moment later, smiling. “It will be dry soon. You drink?”</p><p>“Sure, I drink. Although, it’s a little early for me. Fuck it. When in Paris.”</p><p>“Mais oui. Red. You drink red?”</p><p>“I drink red, I wear water,” Nicole replied, attempting humour, the woman looking at her. “The glass you tipped over me. Water. Eau de...”</p><p>“But, of course. I am so sorry. I was not looking. It is bad of me, no?”</p><p>“No, it’s fine. It was an accident. A happy accident. At least I got to meet you. I’m Nicole.”</p><p>“Ah, Nicole. Very French. I am Waverly.”</p><p>“You live here? It’s great. I'd love to live here.”</p><p>“It is noisy, but it is free. I do not complain.”</p><p>“I’d love to live somewhere this cool.”</p><p>“You are American, yes? A tourist?”</p><p>“Yes, and yes. Always wanted to visit. Added a few days to my business trip, but I'm not enjoying it as much as I thought I would.”</p><p>“Mais non. This is too bad. I must make sure you 'ave a good time in Paris. It would be too bad not to.”</p><p>“Thanks. Dry pants would be fine.”</p><p>“I must insist. I am the one who makes you wet. I do not want you to think bad of me.”</p><p>Nicole smiled. She certainly wasn’t thinking badly of her accidental friend. If anything she was enjoying her time a whole lot more. <em>Wait till I tell everyone back home</em>, she thought. <em>This was going to be one of her better stories.</em> “What do you do?” Nicole asked, taking a seat at the table by the window, watching Waverly pour two glasses of red wine.</p><p>“I sing.”</p><p>“Wow. Never met a singer. Is that why you’re in Paris?”</p><p>“Of course. I train at ze academy. It is so 'ard.”</p><p>“The academy?”</p><p>“Garnier. You know it? I sing opera.”</p><p>“You’re an opera singer?”</p><p>“You like opera?”</p><p>“Never been. That’s so amazing. How long?”</p><p>“Many years. I train. You come, zis evening. My guest. I insist.”</p><p>“I couldn’t. It’s very generous of you, but I couldn’t.”</p><p>“You do not like opera?”</p><p>“No, I’m sure I would. It’s just. Fuck it. Okay. I’ll come.”</p><p>“Of course. Fuck it, as you say. And, afterwards I show you Paris by night.”</p><p>“If this is how Parisians treat someone they spill water over.”</p><p>“Only the person who like you,” Waverly replied, with a wink.</p><p>The rumbling sound of the tumble dryer stopped, Waverly retrieving the dried jeans, holding them out. Nicole dressed, returning to her seat, sipping her wine. There was an easiness to her new friend, a casual familiarity she wasn’t used to. Waverly was on her phone speaking in French, Nicole listening, a flutter in her stomach as the words tumbled out. “It is done,” Waverly said as she ended her call. “You 'ave a ticket for zis evening. It will be fun, yes?”</p><p>“Thanks. That’s really kind.”</p><p>“It is my pleasure. Now, to eat. We go downstairs.”</p><p>For some reason, whatever Waverly said was beginning to have a double meaning for Nicole. Whether it was the wine she was drinking, or the way Waverly pronounced words, a "z" for "th," the dropped "h" at the start of words, her mind was working overtime, everything having a sexual slant.</p><p>“You are 'appy to eat?” Waverly added, seeing the smile on Nicole’s face.</p><p>“Yes, I’m happy to eat,” Nicole replied.</p><p>The pair made their way outside, Waverly entering the bistro, a middle-aged man in an apron appearing from a door at the back smiling, his arms outstretched. Waverly kissed him on both cheeks, introducing Nicole to her uncle, the uncle proceeding to kiss Nicole, something she wasn’t expecting. He showed them to a table by the window, handing them menus. “Whatever you would like,” he said, removing two used glasses.</p><p>“What do you prefer?” Waverly asked, looking up from the menu.</p><p>“I’m really not fussy. Pasta.”</p><p>Waverly laughed. “Zis is France. Pasta is Italy.”</p><p>“Sorry. Anything. I eat anything. You choose for me.”</p><p>Two salads ordered, another glass of red wine, they sat eating, talking about their respective lives. Waverly checked her watch. “I am so sorry, I need to go. It is free. My uncle is treating us.”</p><p>“No, please let me pay. You’ve been too generous already.”</p><p>Waverly frowned. “But, zis is not right. You are my guest. I will not allow it. Do not be late zis evening, Nicole. I will look for you.”</p><p>And with that Waverly left the bistro, Nicole watching her through the window. Returning to her hotel, she selected the perfect outfit, thankful she packed her best suit and white silk shirt. There was a buzz outside the opera house as her taxi pulled up, Nicole making her way to the small window to collect the ticket Waverly reserved for her, holding it out to the usher at the door. He smiled, saying something in French, Nicole unable to understand what he was saying. “Pardon. You will follow, please.”</p><p>Nicole was led up a flight of stairs, along a softly-lit corridor to a door. The attendant removed a key from his pocket, unlocking the door, standing to one side, allowing Nicole to enter a box. “I ‘ope you enjoy,” the guy said, leaving her to take in the view before her.</p><p>The excitement was palpable. A murmur in the audience below, the orchestra tuning up, Nicole having just enough time to take her seat before the lights dimmed. The music began, the curtain went up. Lakmé by Delibes.</p><p>Nicole sat mesmerised. She had wondered what it would be like to attend an opera. It was not on her bucket list, but it was everything she expected it to be and so, so much more. She scanned the performers looking for Waverly, disappointed she was unable to see her. Her disappointment was short-lived when Waverly appeared on stage, her voice the most beautiful she had ever heard, transporting her to another world, her heart soaring, a shift in her existence where life would never be the same.</p><p>The moment she fell in love.</p><p>By the time Waverly sang the flower duet she was crying. Never had she felt the depth of emotion about any piece of music. Seeing her new friend perform was magical, every note carried with it a personal message, as if Waverly was singing to her. Only her. Her heart stopping at the high notes. <em>How could this incredibly beautiful, petite woman sing like this?</em> she wondered, capturing her heart in the process.</p><p>The performance over, there was a knock on the door of her box, Nicole opening it, the attendant who had shown her to her seat outside smiling. “Mademoiselle Waverly is waiting.”</p><p>Nicole felt her heart miss a beat, following the guy to the backstage area, a warren of activity as performers and musicians mingled, chatting, laughing, the occasional nod as she passed. The attendant stopped at a door, Waverly’s name on the outside. He knocked, waiting for Waverly to respond. “Entrez,” Waverly shouted, the attendant opening the door.</p><p>Nicole stood in the entrance, her legs unable to carry her the final few steps into Waverly’s dressing room. “Come, please,” Waverly beaconed, turning from the mirror where she was removing her make-up. “You enjoy?”</p><p>“It was…it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”</p><p>“I am glad. And, you are no longer wet too.”</p><p>“You’re amazing. Absolutely amazing.”</p><p>Waverly smiled at her American friend. “Not so good. I am clumsy. Tonight I do not fall over.”</p><p>“I’m so glad you spilt water over me. You can get me wet any time.”</p><p>“Is that a promise?” Waverly replied, with a wink.</p><p>“Anytime. God, I can’t believe I heard you sing.”</p><p>“So Nicole, are you tired?”</p><p>“No, not in the slightest.”</p><p>“Bien. Now I show you Paris. And, I promise not to make you too wet again.”</p><p>“I don’t know. I’d be okay with you getting me wet. By accident.”</p><p>“Perhaps, it was not by accident.”</p><p>Nicole was unsure whether Waverly understood what she had said. “No, I mean, if you hadn’t spilled water over me I would never have met you.”</p><p>“But, of course. I do not spill water on everyone.”</p><p>“Oh. Oh, right. So, you spilling my water was no accident?”</p><p>c'est le destin, Waverly replied with another wink. And, now let me show you Paris by night.”</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>